Mary Elizabeth

"Mary Elizabeth" was taken on an average day somewhere in the North Atlantic. The rusty net reel and gunnels have since been replaced, and this photo serves as the last vestige of that moment in my life. Like most other seemingly uneventful days, details fade and dissolve with time, eventually lost forever. But I’m lucky enough to have it immortalized in this image. While progress has replaced much of the back of the boat—the net reel, the gunnels—I’m grateful for this snapshot of my past. Fishing was something I thought I’d always be able to do; I could have never guessed what destiny had in store. And because of that, I’m more appreciative of memories like these and the nostalgia that comes with time spent at sea. Looking at this photo, a wave of nostalgia hits, bringing back happy images and short clips from the past. Little moments that seemed unimportant at the time are now priceless pieces of my personal history. Like learning to cook over-easy eggs for the first time, finally mastering it on the skillet while the boat rocked. I can still see myself handing a paper plate with one perfectly cooked egg on a piece of toasted white bread up the galley steps to the captain. We had backyard eggs—it was a big deal. Another memory flickers: I’m on the deck of the *Mary Elizabeth*, off the shores of Nantucket. It’s July. It’s hot. We’re on day four of a very unsuccessful fishing trip. A large boulder sits in the middle of the fish pen—a boulder where a pile of fish should be, marking the end of the trip and sinking morale. I remember the boat speeding toward port in defeat, the wind offering a small relief from the oppressive heat. I’m at the dock, hiding behind my sunglasses, still half-cocked from the night before. I catch a bucket and lower it into the fish hold, banging against the steel as it descends to the man sent by the squid processor. I signal, then haul up the now-loaded squid barrel. Cigarette smoke wafts by as I push the bucket toward Scott, who’s up on the dock catching and dumping it into a big hopper, briny salt water spilling out. His father operates the boom, and we work in sync with signals and body language. The scene is noisy, machines humming all around. That summer, I didn’t bother installing an air conditioner, so I got used to sleeping naked. One morning, I woke up for work, still drunk and naked from the night before, assuming no harm, no foul. But weeks later, I learned I had climbed into my bunk completely nude and—well, there’s no polite way to put this—ended up dangling my balls in the captain’s face as I clambered up. Just a drunken accident, but still... not exactly a highlight. We laugh about it to this day. Years later, we’re still cracking up about the adventures at George’s seaside restaurant. I spent many warm summer nights there—and a few cold winter ones too, but that was years later on a different boat, at a different time. Same restaurant, though, but with no hangovers and a much bigger boat. Maybe a story for another time.